The Mark of Cain
by babybluecas
Summary: The Mark of Cain comes with a great burden, a great cost; it twists, burns and devours. There is an angel who's determined to save the Righteous Man's soul.
1. Devour

The air is sweet with death and burn and Cas knows it's all Dean, before he even turns to the man. And when he does, what he sees makes the grace writhe like magma within him.

The glow of the brightest one cannot outshine the darkness. It is black and red and rotten. Crawling up and to the left, on the silver threads of the soul that Cas once sewed and weaved back together where Hell tore at. It's gnawing and scratching with its filthy tongues. It hovers inches from the heart, still extending its claws towards it, trying to reach and grasp and devour.

And it will, eventually.

Soon.

It's got the arm for now, where it began and made its home, from the fingertips to the neck and then higher. It licks at the right eye and it makes the vision askew. It's swirling like serpents, dying embers on the charcoal that used to be light and life and fire.

It's gangrene.

And there, in the heart of that obscurity, sits the Mark. Never seen, but known all too well to the angel. It kicks him in the guts and pumps the air out of him. Hesitation – it cannot be… Yet it is, right there, the destruction, from inside, of what could never be broken in Hell.

"What have you done?" Out comes a growl and it almost knocks Dean off his feet, as his back hits the wall, a fist wrapped around his shirt.

The other palm bruises, fingers bite at the skin around Dean's wrist. His arm held high, the Mark hanging in between the angel and the Worthy.

"How'd you-"

It's all in the eyes: the wrath that befalls him quietly, the hurt that's there to stay. The regret that should be Dean's. And just then Dean's own eyes go wide, like it hit him harder than Castiel's fist could.

The fingers let go.

"It's no big deal." His shrug's met with a bitter laugh, brief and caught up in the throat.

Cas is not looking at him and the darkness, anymore, but it's all still there and it's not going anywhere. It hangs in the atmosphere like an insult. It's cold and it's heavy, it forces the holy away.

Still the holy remains.

"It's no big deal if you miss Hell so much."

Only silence laughs this time and weighs on Dean's chest.

"Come on Cas," still fake lightness and carelessness, "I'll kill Abaddon… Then I'll worry about this." Still headfirst to saving the world. "I'll find a fix."

He still doesn't get it.

"There is no fix, Dean." If he only saw the same as him, if he only felt it. But he doesn't, not yet. "I'm afraid this time you cannot be saved."

The embers howl triumphantly. They've conquered the moment they called dibs, and now, even the old savior declares defeat.

"Well then… At least she'll be dead."

There are maps spread on top of the map table, there are letters and scrolls that fall apart at the touch and Dean's eyes won't rise from them again. Like maybe they could save him, like maybe the Knight's death can.

"How could you do something so stupid?"

"Means to an end."

The answer is quick and rehearsed, though Cas didn't expect any. He's through with reaching, when there's nothing to reach for anymore. Lost is the battle for what he himself fought for in Hell, the brightest, the purest, the righteous. Lost is the battle for what he's loved and thought more precious than Heaven.

"I hope your end is worth your soul."

And the darkness laughs and sprawls and devours.


	2. Undoing

"I'll rebuild you again," he whispers against the back of Dean's neck. "I'll fix you."

He kisses the trail of freckles adorning his shoulders, over the side that's charred under the bones and the side that's still embers. Surrounded by hellish filth the golden spots are no longer stars, they're merely blemishes. But Cas still follows them, his lips warm against the cold skin. The Mark has swallowed the Righteous Man whole, left the shell of a beast it made him into, slouched and heaving, trembling under Cas's caress.

"I'm evil, leave me be," he cries.

But Cas doesn't.

Their fingers, interlocked, rest on the sheets; the hand that brings slaughter with the hand that heals. The raised scar burns red like the day it was inflicted and it's never leaving his arm and his soul. The angel leans to press his lips to it, with ceremony; he doesn't falter at the foul taste.

_I'll take you. I'll take you as you are._

Reluctant at first, under the coat of self-loathing – the only thing he knows anymore – Dean falls to the softness of the pillow. The sweetest fall that drags Cas down with him, as always, and covers him with the holy weight. The tongue attacks, leaving wet paths along the old scars, hands bless every inch of his body to awake the man from his numbness.

"Why won't you leave me be?" If there's anger building up, it doesn't show, drowned in by resignation. "You said there's no fix for it."

"Then I'll invent one." The timbre of his voice is firm like a consecration, his mouth finally finding its way to the lips. "I won't give up on you."

_I'll make you anew. I'll make you mine._

He utters sacred phrases, the profound whispers of love and they make Dean's dried eyes sting. The most painful words he's ever heard. From the mouth of the angel, clinging to his blackened soul with razor sharp paws. But they'll never get through, there's nothing to get through to, not anymore.

"Please, Cas…" His resistance weak, gets weaker with every kiss, "Cas…" every touch, "you can't…" every push, "please…" until his body is whole Castiel's.

The impact of his repay hits Cas hard as their lips meet halfway. For the first time in weeks he feels alive, as he surrenders unto his angel, follows wherever he leads him. They turn into friction and sweat till the heat brings them both fever. With wild desire turning every slipping second into torment, Dean is demanding, desperate, his teeth sink in hard, his fingers bruise.

"Patience," Cas teases to buy himself time, reach for the bottle, have the liquid drip down his fingers like holy oil.

He's a creator and this body is his finest work; he rebuilt it from the scratch, stretching fresh muscle on bones, embroidering the new skin with miles of nerves and he mercilessly uses each one of them now to drive him mad. He's a destroyer; his mending fingers break Dean apart, crawling inside and working round and round in circles, agonizingly slow. And when the gasps give way to whimper, Cas knows he opened Dean up in more ways than one.

"Fix me," Dean pleads breathless. "Give me…"

He's needy, he's greedy, he's been brought to the edge. Too thirsty to waste another second, too hasty to admire the solid statue hovering above him.

"I'll crush you" he says, gripping Castiel's thighs with a force that paints the flesh purple. That's something he's good at: physical, animal. Hurt and death. That's all he is and if there was ever more, he doesn't remember.

Brief, deep chuckle escapes Cas's throat.

"I'd like to see you try," he dares him.

Without a warning he thrusts. He watches the man's breath get lost halfway out. He watches him crumble like the walls of Jericho. With every sway he brings him to ruins, until the levee breaks and the Divine fills the Damned. Until Heaven and Hell become one.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, Cas._

He's got Dean panting and shivering beneath him, laid out hot, unfocused and shattered in the only right way. A mess of beauty and abomination, with salty trails streaming down his face. He's got him overwhelmed with the corporeal sensations and with the devotion that wrecked the old and the implanted defenses.

With the love that tore him into pieces.

He's got him awaiting, ready to be built on. Patient if remaking comes slow in stages. Prepared if this was the undoing.


	3. Wholly

Remaking a soul is nothing like rebuilding a body. It's not a matter of hours or days or weeks. With his fingers bleeding, with shattered muscles of his wingless back tensed and hard like rocks, Cas realizes he'll need centuries to put him together. Millennia to make him a whole.

"You can't fix me." Dean's voice is coarse from howling, from the torment of being ripped into pieces. "Stop pretending you can."

He'd put time on hold if he could. He'd work on the brightest till the stars surrender to its glow and turn to blackness, ashamed. He'd steal him away from the physical and lay him inside a supernova for a celestial recharge.

If he could he'd burn himself out for the silver threads of Dean's soul.

"I can," the angel whispers, yet the whisper carries the crushing force that is more stubbornness than faith. _I will_.

It's a start; a shining on the left that's weak and tired of the struggle. A palm-shaped patch pulsing like a dying heart, when the real heart has already decayed. Besieged, it's done putting up the resistance, despite the exhaustible ally, the withering protector. That which used to be a part of the savior and clung to the saved. The Grace that has branded him and kept him secure, taking the poison in – now corrodes.

"I can."

_I'm the only one who can._

It's alien; when Cas comes – it's not calling, it's not his anymore. And he's not its, with a stolen fire writhing in his stomach – a counterfeit angel; a walking fallacy. The touch of it makes the chill crawl on his usurped skin. He crumbles: there's not a piece in him that is his own.

"You can't, Cas," the embers beneath him scoff with the lover's voice. A pained melody that pleads for a break.

Instead, Cas cuts in like a knife. He brings down the walls, the last line of defense, to get to the salvaged light and begin to build on that. Piece by piece he turns the weakened shield to dust. To recreate the sacred, he destroys the remains of himself.

_I can._

The remnant of Dean's soul lays bare before him like an open wound. The serpents sharpen their teeth, insatiable. They'll conquer and raise their kingdom, they'll suck the rest in like a black hole. They'll attack at the angel's slightest falter, then he'll stop them with his bones.

They wait.

Were Cas God, he'd divide and multiply the strands of brightness and make them grow endless and strong. He'd weave them to create a new soul for the righteous man, just as remarkable and just as good, in the place of the charred one. He'd fill the body with it to the brim, having undone the embers and their fountain – the Mark.

But he's not God. Not even _a_ god – the fake shepherd he called himself once; almighty.

He's saccharin – hoax, yet sweeter: the filthy paws clutch to him, as he lays around the bleeding ground like a barricade. They lick, curious and greedy, soon they'll hoard and devour, make him into the new Worthy.

He's a nothing: he takes the debris in, plucking it off Dean's bones, swallowing. The venom fulfills his stomach, but vacates the condemned soul. He's a ceasing void.

He's a gardener: the seeds are sown – he nurtures them, he watches them grow like he used to watch their soil sleep (it don't sleep anymore – it whimpers).

When the time comes, he'll be the reaper and he'll send the Grim – the rightful – one, away. He'll harvest the crop of young yarn when the body dies and he'll be a weaver. He'll stretch and intertwine, he'll sew and he'll stuff. He'll hang him far from the flames of the Abyss.

In death, he'll tuck him right outside the fields of Eden. In death, he'll save him for eternity. In death, for good, he'll refabricate the Damned – for Heaven's sake, he'll reestablish him wholly.


End file.
